


Only a Call Away

by voiceless_terror



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftermath of Canon-Typical Worms, Delirium, Ft. Jane Prentiss as "Jar of Ashes", Gen, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Sickfic, TMAHC Week, Takes Place Before Season Two Starts, Vague Talk of Medication, season two, tim stoker is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror
Summary: Jon and Tim in the aftermath of the Prentiss attack. Tim gets a phone call in the middle of the night and comes to the rescue.
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893808
Comments: 17
Kudos: 277





	Only a Call Away

**Author's Note:**

> For Day Six: Delirium. Jon is not having a good time of it, and Tim helps.

A month. They’d been given a month to recover from Jane Prentiss.

It was actually quite generous. Devastating worm attack was definitely worthy of a sabbatical, but he reckoned that Elias was doing it more to avoid a lawsuit than to allow them proper time to recuperate. 

Tim was making good use of his time by munching at painkillers and lazing about his apartment. He caught up on his Netflix queue and though he couldn’t presently participate in any of his outdoor activities, he could actually watch live games and scream at his TV. It was soothing even as it re-opened some of the more difficult wounds on his face. A small price to pay.

He’d sort of been keeping up with his coworkers, but not in any conscientious way. For some reason he kept itching to call Sasha, though he knew she would tell him to get off the phone and get some rest. Ever practical, that one. Martin provided almost daily updates- _‘hard case today, but me and Sasha are on it!’ ‘think all the worms are cleared out by now.’ ‘how are you feeling?’ ‘Jon snuck into the archives again.’_

_Jon._

Tim sent a few texts to the man over the past twenty or so days, just to check up. Both of their wounds had been terrible, but Jon had received the brunt of them, especially in his legs. Horribly unfair- the man already used a cane, movement had to be _torture_ for him now. Tim thought he’d been able to cover him with his body; after all Jon was not especially big. But in his haste he had thrown himself over his chest and face. Not that it did much good in the end, anyway.

His texts garnered short, testy responses- _‘i’m fine’, ‘yes i’m leaving work now’, ‘i’ve been resting.’_ Jon’s answers are more concerning than they are comforting, as most of them arrive in the dead of night. He too was supposed to be on mandated leave, but he’d always been a stubborn thing. Martin’s even had to drag him from the _tunnels_ , which he apparently tried to navigate unsupervised with open wounds and a cane. The man has a death wish.

But then Tim’s phone goes off, startling him from sleep. He glanced blearily at the clock- _2:00 AM._ He groaned and grabbed the offensive thing, fully prepared to throw it across the room. But then he sees the Caller ID- Jon Sims.

“Fuck,” he whispered and immediately clicked ‘accept.’ “Jon? Is everything alright?”

Short, panicky breaths greeted him. A whimper. Tim’s heart plummeted. _“Jon?_ Can you hear me?”

“Y-yes,” Jon whispered. His voice sounded like a wreck. “But I think she’s _back,_ Tim. I let her o-out, it was an accident, but she’s _back._ ”

_Let her out?_ Tim shot up in his bed at full attention. “Fuck no, that’s not possible, Jon. You heard the ECDC. What are you talking about?”

“I-I let her _out_! And now she’s back and I can feel the _crawling._ ”

Tim listened closely to the babbles on the other end of the phone, heart sinking. He knew, objectively, that Jane Prentiss was gone. That didn’t stop the nightmares, though. The leftover feeling beneath the skin. The crawling and the rot. Jon must be in the middle of a nightmare or some sort of hallucination. Either way, it didn’t sound good.

“I’m coming over, alright?” Tim said firmly. A shaky exhale from the other end of the phone. “I’ll help you. Just- just stay in your room, alright? Put something under the door. I still have your key, and I’ll yell out so you know it’s me. Okay?” He didn’t want to necessarily feed into Jon’s delusion, but thought it best to calm the man down before he came and sorted things out. 

“W-will you bring the CO2?” Tim sighed. He’d of course taken some home after Martin’s run-in out of an abundance of caution. On the very, very off chance that Jon was right, he might as well put it in his backpack. “Will do. I’ll be there soon. Call if you need me in the meantime.”

“O-okay. Thank you, Tim.” The relief in his voice was palpable. Tim only hoped he could help the situation. He hung up the phone and moved quickly and efficiently, changing and packing the canister. After some thinking, he decided to throw in his bottle of painkillers and fever reducers, along with spare plasters. Jon was never that great at caring for himself.

So he called a cab and made his way over; expensive, for sure, but it was the quickest route. With a slam of the car door he rushed over to the front steps of the building, using one of two keys to open the door and barreling up the steps. The elevator sign marked it as out of order- had Jon been climbing up and down three flights of stairs every time he left? _Christ._

He reached the door to Jon’s flat in record time, deciding not to knock. Jon had an odd ‘thing’ about knocking. “It’s me! It’s Tim!” he yelled instead as he put the key to the lock, uncaring of the man’s neighbors. The door gave way easily and Tim was greeted by the sight of Jon’s living room.

Jon’s utter disaster zone of a living room. 

Books were strewn everywhere, couch cushions flipped over and off the sofa. Tim could see no dishes save for half-full mugs of tea- another warning sign that all was not well. The apartment didn’t smell, per se, but the air was stale and stuffy. Like someone hadn’t opened a window in a while. Like the smell of illness.

And in the center of this tableau was a broken glass. Upon closer inspection, it was revealed to be a jar.

A broken jar of ashes. _There’s your Prentiss._

Martin had given Jon the ashes early on when he snuck in, attempting to calm his paranoia. Tim had agreed with the idea when Martin ran it by him- whatever worked, honestly. Evidently Jon had started to take it home with him. Maybe to be reminded that she was dead and gone; but Jon’s words over the phone spoke otherwise. 

Speaking of, the man himself was peaking out of the door of his bedroom. “T-Tim? Is she gone?” His hair was wild, free of its usual messy bun and streaming down his back. He was leaning almost all of his weight against the doorway; his pajamas loose, even baggier on his tiny frame than Tim remembered. Several of the wounds on his face were sluggishly bleeding and plaster-free. And his eyes, hazy and fever bright. _Fuck._

“Hey there,” he whispered, like Jon was a skittish animal. “Yeah, she’s gone. Always has been. Why don’t you get back in bed, and I’ll come over with some water, alright? You aren’t looking too well.” Jon seemed to accept this, nodding slowly and limping back to bed. Tim noticed he was favoring his left leg heavily; things must be worse than he thought. 

Making his way over to the kitchen, another disaster zone, he filled a glass from the tap (more mugs in the sink) and wet a cool rag from the drawer. He searched for any sort of food that Jon might be able to keep down, but the shelves and fridge were depressingly empty. He’d have to fix that. 

It was then he noticed the small orange bottles scattered on the counter. He hated to violate the man’s privacy, but it was honestly nothing Tim hadn’t seen before. They had been close, once- sharing their own personal difficulties and issues well into the night over a bottle of wine. So he knew what they were for. And knew it wasn’t good that they were all pristine, completely full and unopened. He grabbed them and threw them in his backpack to place on Jon’s nightstand- once he was better they would have a discussion, iron things out. He knew how easily things slipped from Jon’s mind, Tim never faulted him for that. But he needed to make it clear that it was okay to ask for help and to lean on someone else, especially after what they’d been through. 

Jon was tossing and turning in sweat-soaked sheets, clearly collapsing as soon as Tim had sent him off to bed. The sight saddened him deeply; he should have checked sooner, should have reached out when he’d gotten those one-word shitty texts. But he’d been hurting too. Angry, and not just at the attack, but at his job. Jon. Something was wrong, something was fucked up. It itched at the back of his mind like the wounds on his skin.

Speaking of wounds, Jon would need to sit up for this. He gently shook the man, barely pulling him from his fitful doze as he propped him up on several pillows and began his work. The fan was on and Tim hummed an assortment of low, random melodies as he went about cleaning Jon’s face and arms. The man always did like white noise. Jon didn’t seem to register his presence at all, mumbling nonsense with far-away eyes. He dabbed the wet flannel against his forehead and forced the fever reducers down his throat. Tim wished he’d had the foresight to bring a thermometer, but he wasn’t even sure he kept that in his house. He was no Martin, that’s for sure.

“A-Are you,” the dry croak startled Tim out of his process and he looked into his friend’s eyes. “Is it you? Are y-you the o-one who’s-” a hacking cough “who’s after me? D-Did you-”

“No,” Tim interrupted sharply, but calmed his voice at Jon’s flinch. “Why would we want to do that? Why would we want to hurt you?” Jon’s eyes grew watery, he clearly didn’t understand. Tim found himself growing irrationally angry at every bout of paranoia from Jon- he’d never been quick to anger. It didn’t make any sense. It felt like Prentiss had pulled them further apart than ever. “I wouldn’t be here if I did any of that nonsense.” He tried a different route, softening his voice. “But I’ll help you figure this Gertrude mess out, okay? So no one else gets hurt. Me and you and Martin and Sasha. Protectors of the realm, as it were.” He smiled, hoping to get a laugh out of Jon, but the man was far away from him for now, half unconscious and lost to the waking world. Tim took this time to refill the glass of water, looking over the flat and deciding to help tidy up once Jon was well and truly asleep. Sweep up the ashes, get him a new jar. Mark it _RIP Jane_ if Jon’s in the mood for jokes. He returned to the bedroom, tip-toeing as not to wake him and setting down the glass on the bedside table as softly as possible.

Jon cracked his eyes open anyway. “C-can you keep watch? Make sure she...she stays away?”

Tim passed a hand over his arm and gave it a squeeze in affirmation. “‘Course. Go to sleep. You’ll feel better later. Promise.”

He pulled up a chair, putting the CO2 in plain sight of Jon at his feet. There were only a few hours left in the night and daylight would soon creep into the flat. But Tim didn’t mind. 

He would stay here all night, all day if he has to. He knows when he’s needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Come get y'alls Jon and Tim communication juice.
> 
> Seriously though, is it Jon & Tim week? I Need My Archive Crew to Talk week? That's all I seem capable of doing, hope you don't mind! We're in the home stretch now, one more fic to go for the week. Which is sort of nice, because I have three other plot bunnies going around in my head, and another chapter of Like I Was Inside that I need to edit.
> 
> Let me know how I did. Also available @voiceless-terror on tumblr for asks/prompts.


End file.
